


You Can Count on Me

by LonghornLetters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Music, First Kiss, Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:24:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonghornLetters/pseuds/LonghornLetters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has never really enjoyed Christmas.  Why would this year be any different?</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can Count on Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kestrel337](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/gifts), [glow_in_the_dark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glow_in_the_dark/gifts).



> I am apparently a sucker for sentimental Christmas music, particularly of the Michael Buble variety. I was listening to his Christmas album while I was baking like mad, and his version of I'll be Home for Christmas and All I Want for Christmas both turned into this tiny little plot bunny.  
> This is also dedicated to Kestrel337 and glow_dark_art. They both gave me the push out of the nest to stop just reading Johnlock and try my hand at writing some too. You're the best fandom friends I could ask for.  
> Enjoy.

Christmas was supposed to be the time of year when anyone could find somewhere to belong.  Family.  Friends.  This was the time for generosity and love.  And John felt exactly none of it.  Alone on Christmas, although he could concede that it was at least his own choosing this year rather than anyone else’s, so that had to count for something.

Christmases, at least Watson Christmases, had always been more about demonstrating how he was doing in terms of living up his father’s expectations for him.  That became even more true when Harry eloped with Clara during his first year of Uni.  With one black sheep already living in a bohemian loft trying to make a living selling her photography prints, John could hardly afford to go swanning off to join Medecins sans Frontieres to save the world the way he’d wanted.  Instead he’d joined the army because, “A real man can point to the things he’s done in the army, Johnny.”  Apparently, the delivery of a healthy baby or the treatment of a life-threatening illness weren’t the kinds of things real men pointed to.

John couldn’t imagine real men pointed to sham marriages that failed within a year either.  In that festive mindset, he took the two steps up from the sidewalk and let himself into the entryway of 221B.  Being back didn’t make John any less dour, and as he gazed up the darkened staircase towards the first storey, he wondered what had possessed him to come back at all.  No, he knew why he was here.  It was the same reason he had come just before Sherlock’s “return.”  He was trying to exorcise the sense of loss and hurt that followed him like a cloud, and had done for years now; first with Sherlock’s “death” and now with his former marriage that had buckled beneath the weight of lies and betrayal.  

Climbing the steps, John silently admitted he was here to wallow.  He’d deliberately chosen to come back when he knew the flat would be empty so that no one would be able to see him sulk.  Mrs. Hudson had gone off to her sister’s for the holidays and Sherlock would be visiting his parents who were still more than a bit put out over the whole Mary shooting their son fiasco.

John jimmied his key into the lock on the lounge door that was stiff from infrequent use.  In the sitting room, the garland and fairy lights he and Sherlock had always used to decorate glowed softly as the only illumination in the room.  John sighed.  It would be just like Sherlock to swan off to the country for Christmas and leave the lights on.  No thought of the electric bill he would come home to.

He took his time looking around the sitting room they once shared.  Everything still seemed to be in its place from the haphazardly shelved books to the Riker mount with its carefully preserved bat and beetle specimens.  John sank into the seat he still considered his chair, overwhelmed by all he had loved and lost in the single room.  Not just cases and adventure but the warmth of honest affection.  John had scarcely noticed as the camaraderie of his friendship with Sherlock had evolved into a deeper, more romantic attachment, but now that all the outside voices that had been shouting their uninformed opinions had been silenced,  John knew that what he missed most this Christmas was Sherlock.

_This_ was why he was here.  If he was supposed to spend Christmas with the one he loved, then 221B housed that person.  Or it would, John thought ruefully, if said person wasn’t visiting his parents and John wasn’t such a coward that he couldn’t admit his feelings aloud.  He sighed softly and closed his eyes as he let his head come to rest against the back of his chair.

The sound of music coming from somewhere in the flat made John sit up again, fully alert.  It didn’t take him long to pinpoint the source as Sherlock’s bedroom, but while he could understand Sherlock leaving lights plugged in while he was away, his sound system was another matter.  Sherlock used to play his stereo frequently when he wanted the sound without having to produce it himself on his violin, and it was one of the things John had missed the most when he’d moved out to the suburbs.  Music to suit any mood was another thing he’d had to give up when he’d settled for a “normal” life.

John got up and made his way through the kitchen and down the short hall to Sherlock’s bedroom.  The door was cracked and John could see the soft yellow light of the bedside lamp streaming across the floor.  The music that had drawn John’s attention turned out to be an instrumental arrangement of “I’ll be Home for Christmas” that made John’s heart ache.  That song was poignant enough with the lyrics.  Now, with just a piano and cello, John thought he might actually cry to hear it.

“Come in, John, no need to be shy.”  Sherlock’s voice was a quiet layer over the music.  John stepped into the room, not wanting to lurk outside the door like an intruder.  Sherlock lay on his side facing the door clad in what John recognized as his favourite pyjamas and dressing gown.  Even though the song wasn't especially loud to begin with, Sherlock reached over and tapped the volume control on the remote to push the song even softer.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” John began, embarrassed to be caught coming to his former home to mope.  Sherlock just shrugged in response, but the fact that his eyes cut away told John he hadn’t wanted to be seen doing a little pining of his own.

“I was sure everyone would be away, or I wouldn’t have come.  I can go if you’d rather--” John offered, hoping, admittedly selfishly, that Sherlock wouldn’t toss him out.  He almost laughed when the next song was a man singing a much slower cover of “All I Want for Christmas.”

Sherlock readjusted his head so John was in his line of sight before he responded, “It’s no trouble.  I’m afraid I haven’t had time to box up the remainder of your belongings, but if there was something in particular you were hoping to find, I’m sure I could help you look.”

John Watson, never a man to squander an opportunity, seized the one Sherlock presented to him with both hands.  He settled himself on the edge of the bed facing his friend, and reached out to put a hand on his shoulder.  “As luck would have it, I did come back for something only you’ve got.”  

Sherlock blinked up at him, clearly at a loss as to what he could have that John had needed to rush over on Christmas to retrieve.

John smiled gently down at Sherlock’s confused expression before he closed the last few inches between them and kissed him.  It was just a short, chaste press of lips, but John felt his whole world shift.  

“John, I--,” Sherlock started, clearly bewildered.  John thought for a heart-stopping moment that he had miscalculated rather grievously, but a look into Sherlock’s eyes, where the blinding hope was trying to peek through, made him realize he’d been right to take the chance.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to realize where I belong, but I do now.”  John scooted closer into the curve of his torso and took up Sherlock’s his hand in both his own.  Sherlock’s answering smile was faint and a bit tired, but it was also genuinely pleased.

Sherlock edged over, making room for John to lie down on top of the duvet.  John went, his earlier maudlin exhaustion transformed into a warmer, calmer restfulness.  He reached over to turn out the lamp while Sherlock hit a series of buttons on the remote.  

“Setting the sleep timer,” Sherlock said in answer to John’s unvoiced question.  John settled back against Sherlock’s chest and let his eyes drift closed, the edges of sleep creeping up around him.  There would be time enough for Relationship Discussions tomorrow, but for now, John let the warmth and contentment of finally feeling home for Christmas take him away.


End file.
